Love Must Be Tough
by SunnyZim
Summary: Dean's always looked out for Sam. Even when Sam wasn't aware of it. Even when sometimes Sam didn't want him to. Lots of Hurt!Sam and Protective!Dean. Slight spoilers for 6.10. Gen.


**A/N: **After the amazing response I got for my last Supernatural fic, I just _had _to write something else for you guys! I know that most of you are as desperate to see our Sammy back as I am, and that more than anything all you want is to see the brothers being brothers again. This fic was a sort of catharsis for me in that respect, and my hope is that it is for you too:-) Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I don't own those wonderful boys:-(

**Love Must Be Tough**

Sam was a baby. Dean was not much more than a baby himself. But in the face of fire you can't afford to be a child. Dean took his little brother from his father and ran. He stumbled a little bit as his legs were still short and Sammy was heavier than he looked, but even when he tripped and almost fell, the driving thought that kept him upright, that kept his feet steady was _I gotta protect Sammy. Gotta look out for my little brother. _The flames were a threat to Dean too, but strangely (or maybe not so strangely) that fact never occurred to him. All he knew was that the most important thing in the world right now was keeping his brother safe. And so he simply hugged the warm little bundle even closer to his chest and kept on running.

~ O ~ O ~ O ~

Sam was three. Dean was seven; a big boy now, his daddy said. Dean sat next to Sammy's bed as the toddler tossed and moaned. Sam had come down with the nasty flu that had been going round, and was one miserable little boy. Dean felt terrible because he had been sick first and if it wasn't for him, his little brother would be fine right now. So this was his fault. But he would make it up to Sammy, he would. He would sit beside his bed and make sure that the cloth on Sammy's forehead stayed cool and damp and the cup beside his bed filled with juice and he would read Dr Seuss to Sammy and then he would get better. He _would. _Because if Dean couldn't fix his little brother through sheer willpower alone than no one and nothing could.

The next morning Sam woke up feeling much better and greeted Dean with a dimpled, albeit tired, grin. And Dean's belief in his power to protect Sammy against all odds was reinforced.

~ O ~ O ~ O ~

Sam was ten. Dean was fourteen. Sam was a scrawny little runt of a kid, all skin and bones, long hair and shadowed eyes. Dean had recently had a growth spurt and was starting to grow into his limbs. Sam came home from school, face bruised and bloody. He dumped his bag unceremoniously on the table and without so much as looking at Dean disappeared into their room. Dean ignored Sam's silence and followed him in, pressing him to demand what was wrong.

"Go away, Dean, it doesn't matter. I'm _fine,_" was all the reply he got for his efforts. But Dean had never been one to give up so easily.

"Sure you're fine, Sam. Looks like you had a simply _fabulous _day at school. _Love _the new look by the way. It really brings out your eyes."

As he had known it would, the sarcasm goaded Sam into being a bit more upfront.

"Look it's nothing OK. Just some jerks at school. No big deal."

But Dean could see that it _was _a big deal. And even if Sam hadn't felt that way, his big brother did, and those sons of bitches who did this were going _down. _ So with the threat that if Sam didn't tell him who did it, he would go to Sam's school anyway and pick on the biggest guys he could find until he hit upon the right ones (pun freakin' intended), he wrangled the names out of his little brother and headed off. Turns out they _were_ the biggest guys in the school anyway. _Almost _as big as Dean…

~ O ~ O ~ O ~

Sam was sixteen. Dean was twenty. Sam had finally grown into his freaky long arms and legs. His hair on the other hand, seemed to have grown into him. Or at least, that's what Dean said. Frequently. It was very _Sam _though, all emo and rebellious, going its own way. And when did he freakin' start thinking in _hair _metaphors for crying out loud? Anyway, that didn't matter right now because Sam's hair and its owner were lying in the back of the Impala, after being tossed into a freakin' concrete wall. And Dean's little brother was unconscious and bleeding and his leg was lying at a funny angle with the bone sticking out in a sickening way and Dean didn't know whether he could get to the hospital fast enough. But he would. Because he was _Dean _and the all-too-still body in the back was _Sam _and that's all that mattered really. So pedal to the metal, he floored it.

~ O ~ O ~ O ~

Sam was twenty-two. Dean was twenty-six. Neither was so little anymore and yet Dean found that history could still repeat itself. Flames burned hot and bright and smoke poured out the windows and doors as Dean dragged his little brother who fought and struggled every step of the way, but Dean did not let go. Just as he did all those years ago, he simply held on tighter and ran. Because whilst he felt awful for Jess' death, he was not about to let his brother die too. And whilst he felt guilty as hell for thinking it, he knew that if he had to choose between the two, there would be no competition. Sam would always win. No matter who else was at stake, when it came to his little brother, Sam would always win. And if Dean was wrong for feeling that way, well to hell with it.

~ O ~ O ~ O ~

Sam was twenty-three. Dean was twenty-seven. Sam lay more still than he ever had before, his gigantic frame spread out on a dirty mattress. That's because Sam was dead. And as Dean drove from the room where his brother lay, tears blinding his eyes, heart pounding with anger, foot pressing the pedal of the Impala to go faster, faster, _faster_, he knew that no matter what regrets he might have later, no matter what Sam (_Sammy_) might say, it was worth it. His _soul _was worth it. Because what was Dean without a Sam to protect?

~ O ~ O ~ O ~

Sam was twenty-five. Dean was twenty-nine. Sam was huge now, all broad shoulders and powerful limbs. Dean, on the other hand, felt smaller than he used to. Not physically smaller so much, just smaller. Going to hell can do that to a man, he had discovered. But on a hunt against a particularly nasty werewolf, Dean didn't think twice about throwing himself in front of Sam when the beast charged. Yes, Sam was armed and Dean wasn't, having had his gun knocked out of his hand shortly before. Yes, Sam was a perfectly capable hunter. But nonetheless, the moment he saw that beast charging, Dean's muscles acted of their own accord and before he knew it he was in front of Sam, facing down a very angry werewolf. An exasperated Sam had to shoot around Dean who refused to budge and the werewolf died inches from Dean's throat. Afterwards, Sam took a piece out of Dean for his 'blind protective streak', as he called it.

"Although, with you", he added, "it's not so much a streak as your whole freakin' personality. What were you thinking Dean? You could have got us both killed! In case you hadn't noticed, I survived for a whole four months without you and I am perfectly capable of looking after myself without you being stupidly heroic."

That hurt. But Dean had to acknowledge its truth. It _hadn't _been his wisest move and he _could _have got them both killed. He ignored the whole surviving without him for four months thing because he knew how little truth there was in _that. _Unless you call being sloshed out of your noggin 24/7 'surviving'. To be honest, he couldn't explain why he did it. It was like a muscle memory thing, instinctive, natural. The truth was he _didn't _think, he just reacted. Because when he saw that beast bearing down on Sam he knew that there was no other choice. If Sam was going to die, he was going to die too. But more importantly, Sam _wasn't _going to die, because Dean wouldn't let it. Not again.

He didn't say this to Sam however. All he said was, "I'm sorry, dude. I didn't think."

And yeah, he guessed that was the truth.

~ O ~ O ~ O ~

Sam was twenty-eight. Dean was thirty-two. Sam hadn't been Sam in a while. That's because _Sam, Dean's Sam_, was still in Hell. Dean was putting up with Sam's soulless body because he wanted to keep it safe for when his Sam came back. He knew that Sam's body (he would _not _think of it as Sam, damn it), had already done several things that his Sam would never forgive himself for. And now that Dean was in the picture again, it was his job to make sure that it didn't do any more regrettable things. Because his Sam was _going _to come back. Dean would make sure of that. And when he did, he was going to have enough to deal with without feeling guilt for things that weren't even his fault.

So when Sam's body told him that it wasn't interested in being reunited with Sam's soul anymore, Dean ignored it. Because _it _didn't have a say in the matter. Dean was getting his little brother back, come hell or high water. No matter what it took, his Sammy was going to look out of those hazel eyes again, and hell if that wasn't a cheesy thought, but bottom line was, Dean was bringing him back. If he had to face hell again to do it, he would. Because it was his job to look out for his little brother against all the odds, against heaven and hell, and sometimes even against Sam himself.

The End

**A/N: **Your feedback is always appreciated:-) I hope this was as much a catharsis for you as it was for me;-)


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